


her soul burns (like the hearth)

by sunshine_butch



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Wandering Isles
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshine_butch/pseuds/sunshine_butch
Summary: She was only 8 when the conflict subsided, but she watched her parents lose so much, and decided that she was going to take care of them in whatever way her clumsy child’s hands could. She never was a fighter, but her soul burns like the hearth, comforting, a place for more capable hands to keep warm so that they might fight so valiantly.She met her wife, Yodean, as a young girl when she took refuge in the Black Cat. Two young girls with rebellious streaks of varying volumes, born out of caring more than anything, grew up together. They never fell in love, per se-- it was there from the beginning, a kinship that took many names over the years: friend, lover, girlfriend, soulmate, wife. But Yodean has fallen ill, and Theresa, ever the protector, is ready to depart from her home for the first time to find a cure.
Relationships: Yodean Kisqanuk/Theresa Dúghlas





	1. Chapter 1

She woke up to the sounds of footsteps over her head and the rustling of fabric nearby. When she opened her eyes, there was a brief moment of panic - _this isn't my room, this isn't my bed, why is there a body next to me_ \- before she quickly recognized the saferoom. This wasn’t her first night here, but she still hadn’t grown accustomed to that moment of panic in the mornings. Her parents had her sleep in the saferoom whenever a new person or group arrived; since she was so small, she was the best bet to keep them under watch without overcrowding them in the already-cramped cellar, although she still often had to share a cot, as she had last night.

In the last few months, she had been sleeping in the saferoom more and more frequently as they took in more patrons who were at risk in the grasp of Geline or Molstova (or, more often than not, both). Theresa didn’t really know the details, being only eight, but she knew she was doing the right thing, and that filled her with a sense of pride, her green eyes gleaming under her mess of reddish curls.

The footsteps above her grew closer, and she felt the body next to her tense. Theresa tensed up too, until she heard a voice call down: “Madainn mhath! Breakfast dearies!” Theresa’s face split into a grin, and noticed that one of her teeth was getting loose - she would have to let Ma know, she would be so excited. She went to shake the body next to her awake: another young girl, just a few years older than herself, with long black hair and bags under her eyes despite her youth. They had only met briefly last night, and she hadn’t said a word, although Theresa was fairly sure she remembered her mom mentioning that her name was Yodean.

The second her hand reached the other girl’s shoulder, Yodean flinched so violently that she sat up, awake and alert, turning her head to give Theresa a look equal parts fear and challenge-- _go ahead, try again, see what happens_. Theresa decided to ignore that in favor of normalcy; this girl and her father came from a long, difficult journey, of course they would be on edge.

“Breakfast,” she said chirpily, and went to the door to start working at the locks. There were four of them, two magical and two mechanical, which Theresa had learned to open when she was six, the same age she started sleeping in the saferoom when needed. After a couple seconds and one failed attempt when she couldn’t quite remember one of the passcodes, it swung open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit stairwell. There weren’t any windows or mounted torches here, the only light coming from the kitchen above, so it was always a little dank, but Theresa never really minded.

She turned to Yodean and her father, who was now sitting up groggily on the other cot. “Oats and cream today,” she said, “you guys are lucky. Last week the oats were all watery, it was terrible.” She wrinkled up her nose and stuck out her tongue for effect, and the man laughed. _She liked him,_ she decided. _Good sense of humor._

She bounded up the stairs, still in her nightgown that Nana had made her. The two of them could follow when they were ready.

“Madain manh!” she called as she entered the kitchen. Cherelle Beckham, a half-orc woman with a baby on her hip, was sitting at a table in front of the hearth, and smiled at Theresa as she entered. She had been a resident in one of the single rooms for a few months now, and Theresa would often come in to play with the baby, Chazmere. Cherelle offered to pay her for babysitting, but Theresa couldn’t take the money in good conscience -- she just liked making him babble and smile.

She waved at Cherelle and Chaz, then headed to a cupboard and began pulling out bowls and spoons. There weren’t enough clean sets for the Yodean, her dad, the Beckhams, and herself, but that was fine. Theresa could eat later.

She took the bowls to the stove, where Ma was stirring a pot of oats, and reached up to set them on the counter next to her.

“Ma, I have a loose tooth, look!” She grinned broadly, showing off where one of her front teeth was starting to dangle. Ma looked down at her, and grinned in return.

“That’s so exciting, dearie! I’ll have to let the tooth fairy know so she can get her coins ready.”

Ma was a short, round woman, with rosy cheeks and brown curly hair piled and pinned on top of her head. Her bright green eyes were framed by freckles and smile lines, and her apron was covered in flour, somehow, even though she hadn’t been baking.

“Go wash up, breakfast is just about ready.”

“Oh, there aren’t enough clean bowls for everyone, I can eat later.”

“Theresa, you can just wash a bowl and still eat with everyone else.”

“Oh! Good idea, Ma.” Ma chuckled.

“I try.”

* * *

Theresa took two steaming bowls of oats to the table tucked in the back corner of the kitchen, where Yodean and her dad were sitting. She set them down in front of them, along with two spoons.

“I’ll go get you some coffee,” she said to her dad, then turned to Yodean. “Do you want anything to drink?” Yodean didn’t look at her, shoulders hunched. Her father tapped on the table in front of her, and asked in a hushed voice, “di-naa?” She shook her head no, and Theresa nodded in acknowledgement, even though Yodean still wasn’t looking at her.

She left and came back a moment later with a coffee and a bowl of oats for herself, sitting across from them silently, trying to communicate wordlessly: _you are safe here_.


	2. Chapter 2

_Knock knock knock_.

Theresa looked up from the sink, elbows deep in suds, and locked eyes with her father. _Gilean._ He nodded solemnly, and she quickly rinsed and dried her arms and hopped down from her stool. Yodean and her father, whose name she learned to be Láwa, were already heading down to the saferoom. Theresa quickly followed them, closing the trapdoor to the stairwell behind them, hearing her father drag a chest of cleaning supplies over it.

The stairwell was rendered completely dark, so Theresa cast a quick Light cantrip, the first one she had ever learned. It was weak -- her magic was still new to her, and she didn’t always know how to channel it the way she needed to. 

Yodean and Láwa were already in the saferoom, and Theresa followed close behind, the door clicking shut behind her. She fastened the locks, put up the sigil to ward against Detect Magic, and extinguished the Light cantrip, trying not to breathe too heavily or show signs of panic. She needed to make the guests feel comfortable, secure.

They sat there, in complete darkness, unsure of how much time was passing or what was going on upstairs. This wasn't the first Gilinish raid the Black Cat had undergone, and probably wouldn't be the last. Each one was more terrifying than the last, because their repetition sent a message: _we know you're hiding something. And we won't give up until we find it._

* * *

A few hours later, Theresa got a Message from Pa. _It’s safe now._ Theresa turned to the other two, who had been sitting in silence the whole time.

“They're gone,” she whispered, “but you might want to stay down here a while longer. I’ll bring down dinner for you, if that's okay.”

Láwa nodded wordlessly, and Yodean still wouldn't meet her eye. Theresa nodded in return, before undoing the locks and creeping up the stairs, sending a Message back to Pa: _I’m coming._ As the door closed behind her, she heard Láwa speaking to his daughter in that same throaty, melodic language she had heard the two of them used. She realized that she had never heard Yodean use Common-- could she even speak it? Or was it just a point of pride?

When she brought down dinner that evening -- game stew -- Yodean’s eyes lit up at the sight of the steaming bowls. She took one, wordlessly, and inhaled the steam coming off of the broth. Theresa smiled to herself - this was the happiest she had seen Yodean in the few months she had been staying at the Black Cat, and she was glad to have taken part in the cause. She handed the other bowl to Láwa, and said gently, “I’ll leave you two to eat in peace, I’ll be back after sundown.” He nodded, and the last thing Theresa heard as she went to close the door behind her was a gentle, Common “thank you.”

* * *

“Why don’t you ever speak Common?”

It wasn’t the best way to approach the subject, sure, but Theresa was nine years old and impatient. It was all she had thought about since earlier that evening when she heard the ‘ _thank you,_ ’ and since Láwa was already asleep, she figured this was as good a time as any.

Yodean rolled over in her cot so that she was facing Theresa. Her heavy brows were knit, the angles of her face casting hard shadows in the light of the Fairy Lights she cast.

“It is the language of soldiers,” she said slowly, her tongue struggling around the rounder vowels.

“It is _not_ ,” Theresa replied, a little hurt. “I speak it, and I’m not a soldier. I _hate_ soldiers.”

“It is the language of soldiers,” Yodean repeated, “and not of my people.”

“Well, it’s the only language I speak, and I want to speak to you.”

Yodean turned off the Fairy Lights and rolled back over without replying. _Oops_.

Theresa lay in thought for a few minutes, before being struck with a flash of genius.

“What language _do_ you speak?” she whispered into the darkness, hoping Yodean could hear.

There was no reply for a while, and Theresa figured Yodean was either asleep or ignoring her. Either way, the conversation was over, so Theresa closed her eyes in an attempt to fall asleep herself. Then, suddenly, a reply, so quiet she could barely make it out: “Tlingit.”

“Hm?”

“Tlingit.” A bit stronger this time. “It is my language.”

“Tling-it,” Theresa tried, savoring each syllable. “Can you teach me?”

“What?”

“Tlingit. Teach it to me.” Theresa propped herself up on her elbow as Yodean turned to face her once again. “I want to learn.”

“Why?”

Theresa shrugged as best she could.

“To talk to you.”

Yodean rolled back over, pulling the knitted blanket Ma had made up to her ears.

“We can start tomorrow. For now, sleep.”

Theresa layed back down, grinning from ear to ear. Tomorrow, she was going to learn to talk to this mysterious girl in the cot next to her.

That night, she dreamed of a fire, warm and comforting. A hearth. Her hands were doing something repetitive, weaving something together, and she felt at peace. She was home.


	3. Chapter 3

Theresa was terrible at speaking Tlingit, as it turned out.

It’s not like she was bad at languages -- she was fluent in Scots, a dialect of Common, and Tlingit was just a dialect of Elvish, which she had been surrounded with all her life. She could read it just fine, and wasn’t half bad at writing or understanding, but she just could not speak it. Something about the pronunciation of it was just beyond her comprehension, and even after eight years of practice, she could feel Yodean holding back a laugh every time she tried to talk.

“Oh, I’m terrible, aren’t I?”

“You are not terrible, you are delightful. But your Tlingit…”

Theresa draped herself across the top bunk with a groan, hair flopping off the edge. She felt Yodean, who was sitting on the bottom bunk, swat at it playfully.

_ “You have so much hair.” _

_ Theresa was ten years old, and while she didn’t understand every aspect of social decorum just yet, she knew that what she had said was probably not polite. _

_ “Not as much as you,” Yodean responded flatly. _

_ They were in the saferoom again. There was no danger, and Láwa wasn’t with them; the two of them would just come down here, sometimes, when it wasn’t occupied, and when everything got a little too much for Yodean, when the lights would be too bright and she couldn’t separate out sounds. _

_ “Sorry.” _

_ “Why are you sorry?” _

_ “I don’t know, it just felt like the thing to say.” _

_ “You don’t have to do that with me.” _

_ “Do what?” _

_ “Say the right thing.” _

_ Theresa knitted her brow. Of course she had to say the right thing -- what else would she say? The  _ wrong  _ thing? Why would she do that? _

_ “You have a question,” Yodean prompted. _

_ “I have a lot of questions,” Theresa replied, and Yodean almost cracked a smile. _

_ “So ask me one.” _

_ “Why do you have so much hair?” _

_ “Why do you?” _

_ “No, I mean, you never cut your hair.” _

_ “That’s not a question.” _

_ “Okay, so why do you never cut your hair?” _

_ “I am not mourning.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “We only cut our hair when we are mourning. I am not mourning right now.” _

_ “Did you cut your hair when your mother died?” _

_ “Yes. The day before we met.” _

_ “Oh.” Silence, then, “do you always have to braid it?” _

_ “I choose to.” _

_ “Why?” _

_ “It grounds me. Or it connects me to whoever braids it.” _

_ “Could I braid your hair?” _

_ Yodean paused, thinking. _

_ “Braiding hair is a very intimate thing.” _

_ “Oh. Sorry.” _

_ “Why are you apologizing?” _

_ “I don’t know.” _

_ “That’s okay.” _

Yodean crawled out of the bottom bunk - her recent growth spurt had left her towering over Theresa lately, but she wasn’t lanky, just graceful - and went back to work changing sheets. They were in one of the inn’s larger rooms, fitted with several bunk beds for when adventuring parties or the occasional pirate crew would stop by and wanted to stay together. It was winter, though, so not many parties were on their way to or from the snowy hills of Windorf. Theresa loved these moments; she found housekeeping and hosting to be relaxing, almost meditative, and she loved when it let her spend more time with Yodean.

During winter months, Yodean always spent more time around the Black Cat helping out. Ma and Pa were always at their meetings, and there wasn’t as much freelance work for Yodean to take up, especially after the solstice when everyone was done commissioning gifts -- she had been apprenticing as a carpenter, and turned out to be quite skilled at it.

_ Good with her hands _ , Theresa thought, then began to blush furiously. She sat up suddenly, terrified that Yodean would somehow see, then realized what a terrible idea that was when all of the blood rushed from her head and she was hit with a dizzy spell.

“Ya-haan ya-ke’i?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Sat up too quickly, that’s all.”

Yodean didn’t look like she believed her, but didn’t pry either. “Alright. I have to go soon, I will meet with my father soon.”

“More Bladesong training?”

“Yes,” Yodean grinned widely. She loved Bladesong more than anything, and took immense pride in it -- once her father was gone, she would be the last Bladesong Wizard, a role she took very seriously.

_ Ma was teaching her to cook her 30 garlic clove chicken, hands hovering as she used the flat of the knife to crush the cloves. Yodean was sat across the kitchen, her watchful gaze following Theresa as she moved back and forth across the kitchen, butchering and stirring and dicing and cleaning. _

_ When she finally put the chicken in the oven, Theresa washed her hands and put a kettle on before joining her at one of the rickety dining tables. _

_ “Your mom is nice,” Yodean commented quietly. _

_ “Hm? Oh, yes, she’s lovely.” _

_ “She cooks well.” _

_ “Yes, she does.” _

_ “So do you.” Theresa blushed at that, felt the flush reach her ears. _

_ “Thank you.” _

_ “So did my mom.” _

_ “Oh. Is she…?” _

_ “She died five years ago. Before we fled.” _

_ “I’m sorry.” _

_ “It’s not your fault.” _

_ “I’m still sorry.” _

_ “She was… she was killed. By a Gilinish soldier.” _

_ “Oh.” Theresa felt a rage bubbling in her chest, hot and acidic like bile crawling up her throat. _

_ “They all were.” _

_ “They?” _

_ “My people. The Tlingit.” _

_ “All of them?” _

_ “Except for me and my father.” _

_ “Holy shit.” _

_ Yodean looked up at her at that, eyes filled with both tears and puzzlement. “I didn’t know you could curse.” _

_ “Of course I can curse. I’m practically an adult.” _

_ “You’re fifteen.” _

_ “That’s not important. You’re seventeen, and you’ve had to grow up more than most adults in this town.” _

_ The kettle started to whistle. _

_ “I’m sorry,” Theresa repeated. _

Theresa could see how Yodean carried her culture in her posture, shoulders back, hair in a long braid down her spine.

“Have fun!” she called after Yodean as she made her way out of the room.

Yodean turned back and flashed her a rare smile.

“I will, I promise.”

* * *

A few hours later, Theresa was bundled up and sitting on the porch of the Black Cat, watching an eight-year-old Chaz build a snowman. It was no longer actively snowing, but the ground was covered in about a foot of snow, perfect for playing in. Chaz was growing like crazy -- he was going to catch up to Theresa any day now -- and full of energy, completely unbothered by the freezing temperature in just pants and a light jacket.

Suddenly, she saw Yodean and  Láwa come around the corner, Láwa carrying both of their throwing axes. Yodean’s usual perfect posture was gone, and she was clutching her left shoulder, which was hunched at an odd angle.

Theresa jumped up and clumsily made her way to them through the snow.

“Are you alright?”

“I am fine,” Yodean said, voice strained slightly.

“You’re hurt.” Theresa’s heart was pounding, steadily making its way into her throat.

“Only a little bit.”

“Let me look at it. Pa isn’t here right now, but I might be able to do something.”

“I don't need help.”

“Yes you do,” Theresa snapped. Yodean looked as surprised as she felt, but this was serious. Yodean was  _ hurt _ , and Theresa needed to find a way to help.

She called for Chaz to come inside, and for him to put the kettle on.

“Láwa, do you know where we keep the med packs?” He nodded. “Please grab one for me. Yodean and I will be in the dining room.” She turned to Yodean. “Let's go.”

“You're intimidating.”

Theresa laughed, hoping her nervousness didn't come through, if it wasn't already by her hands shaking.  _ Yodean is hurt _ was the only thing running through her mind, over and over.  _ Yodean is hurt. Yodean is hurt. _

When they got to the dining room, Theresa sat her down at the corner table. Yodean just sat there looking at Theresa, expectant.

“I need to look at your shoulder, um. You need to take your shirt off.” Theresa hoped she wasn't blushing too hard as Yodean peeled off her coat, then her linen shirt, exposing her toned arms and strong collarbones. It also exposed her shoulder, which looked red and a little swollen, the bone jutting at an odd angle under the skin.

“It looked dislocated,” Theresa muttered, mostly to herself.

“I pulled it throwing,” Yodean replied, and Theresa nearly jumped. She looked up to meet her gaze, but Yodean had closed her eyes in pain. 

“I-” Theresa moved to put her hands on Yodean’s shoulder, and saw her flinch. “Can I touch you?”

Yodean nodded, eyes still squeezed shut. Theresa placed her hands on her shoulder, gently, and tried to tap into the intense feeling of  _ Yodean is hurt, and I need to help. _

Something warm settled in the pit of her stomach, weighty and comforting, like a good meal. The feeling grew, filling up her chest and seeping into her heart, then flowing through her arms and out of her fingertips. A light eminated from her, barely visible, and she pushed slightly, and suddenly Yodean’s shoulder was back where it was supposed to be.

“That… I healed you.”

“You did.” Yodean’s eyes met Theresa’s.

“I’ve never done that before. I mean, I’ve done magic, but just, like, really basic cantrips. Not healing.”

“I’m the first person you’ve ever healed.”

“You’re the first person I’ve ever healed.”

Something flashed in Yodean’s eyes at that, but she looked away before Theresa could gain any insight as to what it was, what it could have meant. She resolved to learn what every look of Yodean’s meant -- Theresa had decided when she was eight years old to learn everything she could about Yodean, and she saw no reason for that to change; not now, not ever.


	4. Chapter 4

“He’s gone.”

“What?”

Theresa looked up from the pot of tomato and basil soup she was stirring. Yodean was standing in the doorway of the inn, shoulders slumped, voice wavering. Her voice had never wavered before.

“He’s gone.”

“Can I hug you?”

Yodean nodded.

Theresa hugged her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She felt Yodean nod. “Let’s go upstairs, my parents are at a meeting.”

She helped a shaking Yodean, who towered over her by now, up the stairs and into her parent’s room. It was a humble and cozy place, with a small woodfire stove across from the hearth and a bed just large enough for two, covered in quilts. Theresa took Yodean to sit in front of the fire and grabbed one of the quilts to drape over their shoulders

Yodean’s breathing was too fast.

“Hey, hey. Breathe with me. Inhale,”  _ one, two three, _ “exhale,”  _ one, two, three, four, five.  _ “Again. In,” _ one two three,  _ “and out,” _ one two three four five. _

“Can you tell me what happened?” Yodean breathed for another moment, then began to speak, quietly, slowly.

“He… there was another conflict. He was at the edge of town, talking to Gosselyn, I think. They were going over plans for… for the beacon. And Geline… they…”

“Can I hug you again?”

Yodean nodded, again.

Theresa hugged her, again, and didn’t let go for a long, long time, until Yodean stopped crying.

“I need to cut my hair.”

“Okay.”

“Can you do it?”

“Now?”

“Yes. I need to mourn.”

“Okay. I can do that. Do you… is there anything else I need to do?”

“There is a ceremony after. But I want you to cut it now. The ceremony can wait.”

“How much should I cut?”

“Whatever feels right.”

Theresa found one of her elastics, a comb, and the dagger she knew her parents kept under their mattress, just in case (which she tried not to think about too much, or she would get nauseous and dizzy).

She came back to the hearth and kneeled behind Yodean.

“Can I brush your hair?”

“Yes.”

She gently undid Yodean’s braid, taking care to unwind it slowly to prevent any knots. She had never seen Yodean with her hair down, although she knew that Láwa would rebraid it for her whenever she washed it. It felt wrong, almost. This was intimate, Theresa shouldn’t be here for this. But who else could do it? And Yodean gave her permission.  _ She came to you. She  _ chose _ you. _

She took the comb and ran it through her hair a few times, but she almost didn’t need to, it was so well kept. It was healthy and shiny, and dragged on the floor a bit now that it was loose and Yodean was sitting cross-legged, staring intently at the fire.

“I’m sorry,” Theresa whispered as she tied the elastic three-quarters of the way down Yodean’s hair.

“You keep doing that.”

“Apologizing?”

“Yes. For things that you did not do.” Theresa almost laughed at that.

“I just… I thought the war was over.” Yodean did laugh at that, bitterly, and Theresa felt a curdling in her stomach.

“The war was not over. I do not think it ever even began. It always was, and it probably always will be, and there is nothing we can do but keep fighting.”

“I’m not a fighter.” Theresa lined up the dagger, trying to get a comfortable grip on it.

“Yes you are.”

“I’m not, I have no strength.”

“That is not the only way to fight, Theresa.” Yodean had never said her name before, and it sat awkwardly in her mouth, the vowels not quite right. It was endearing.

“I’m going to cut it now, is that okay?”

Yodean hesitated a moment before nodding, just barely.

_ Shrrk. _

Nearly six inches gone. A significant loss.

Yodean let out a sob. Theresa kneeled there, holding her, until they both fell asleep.

* * *

Theresa awoke a few hours later, knees creaking like an old woman’s. She and Yodean had slumped over in their sleep, half-laying down, and Yodean’s hair was in Theresa’s face -- a little bit had gotten into her mouth.

She extracted herself carefully, as to not wake Yodean, and adjusted the quilts to cover her more completely. The fire was almost out, so she added another log, and put the comb and dagger back. Her parents weren’t back yet, probably still talking to Mother Abel. She hoped they were alright. She resolved to put the kitchen kettle on for when they got home, hopefully soon.

As she left the bedroom, she paused in the doorframe, looking back at the girl sound asleep on the floor. Not really a girl, anymore, a young woman. Tired. Vulnerable.

A thought popped into Theresa’s head, so resounding and resolute that it must have been there for years, simmering beneath the surface.

“I love you,” she whispered, then went to make tea.


End file.
